she flowers on the hillside of her heart

to pick a pretty flower is divine,
the rosy hues that blossom quite sublime;
the way she reaches gently 'round this vine
to share her fragrance where the shadows shine.

She grows as light -- her petals though are pulled
her heart remains wide open -- never folds,
her colors sing out steadfast; bright and bold.
Her spirit never freezes despite cold.

In winter still she shouts the joys of spring;
the fire in her voice makes flowers sing.
The passion in her voice makes everything
in shadows fade away; they pain they bring
is gone forevermore by acts of love;
o precious little flower from above.